Don’t listen to the pig farmers, whatever you do. They look trustworthy, with their jolly cheeks, tousled, sun bleached waves. But they cannot be trusted. Do you even know about the farmers, what they do, what they are? You think there’s something noble in pig farming, something rustic and true. You like those russet-hued Jamie Oliver photographs, where his fat face and tiny, glinting eyes preside in the long-angled evening sunshine over slabs of rare breed pig meat. You like his farmer friends, those portly men in their wax and tweed, who merrily coax the foetus-pigs into existence, massaging their little jowls and haunches into succulent maturity. But you are in such peril. You cannot trust those affable, dangerous pig farmers. They turn from the camera, licking their lips, and they wink to one another across golden fields. They make for home through the dusky farmyard, rubbing their chubby hands together as rivers of undulating pork fat ooze their way across the country, soft, silent fingers extending over vale and furrow until they reach the city, tightening their grasp.